


i'll cut your little heart out

by colloquialrhapsodist



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Gen, Swearing, i mean what're you gonna do it's envy this is bound to be dark, some mentions of violence but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 12:49:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3120752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colloquialrhapsodist/pseuds/colloquialrhapsodist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>– she sleeps with one eye open, and sometimes, she talks to the thing in the jar. may & envy – mostly envy. no shipping. envy pov.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll cut your little heart out

**Author's Note:**

> Okay. I literally have watched FMAB for the first time over these last three days. I know virtually nothing about the fandom or the history of it or whatever, all I knew was that I had to write this fucking thing or I'd like die. So, just to clear up any confusion, my headcanon Envy is genderfluid and goes by "they."

She talks to them sometimes, and it’s _annoying._

The little squirt doesn’t sleep, for whatever reason. She’s got the engine of an armored tank, with the rate she keeps on trekkin’, and it’ll never compare to their monstrous, beautiful power, a thousand souls tucked tight under their tongue, sucking on pain and misery and writhing in it – but it’s not like they can do that _now_ , as this tiny thing. This tiny, weak little body. This isn’t living. But they bite their tongue. Sucking on their own misery.

Because it’ll be soon. Soon, even if every day with that damned brat feels like hell, bobbing up and down in that stupid jar and hitting the walls because she’s fucking clumsy, prancing about on her tippy-toes and wooing the passing villages with smiles sweeter than fine chocolates from Xing (they can’t see it, but they can _picture_ it all right, and it makes them sick) and oh, oh oh oh, they’re going to stuff _her_ in a jar when this is all over, her and her chubby hands and big eyes and tippy-toes and sweet voice.

She’s the ugly one. Ugly and small. Pink’s a terrible color, who told her that was a good idea? She looks like a fairytale princess, tugged sparkling into reality, and smothered in cotton candy. And that fucking _bear_ just tops it off, doesn’t it, cherry on the cake. Sweetest little girl you ever did see, people tripping over themselves to fawn over her. Got a hardass like _Scar_ to crumble to pitiful human affections. Well, whatever. Scar’s still a killer, regardless of the little girl. Scar will stay a killer, mindless and stupid.

Not like them, though. They’re not mindless. They’ve got a plan.

Father’s plan, they guess, but it comes with some good shit. They remember pressing a gun to that little kid’s head. The Ishvalan infant had a bear, too. Inanimate, but what difference does it make, it completes the image perfectly. They remember. They remember _everything_ about that sweet little moment, the horror on her face. The Ishvalans rioting. Senselessly violent, all of ‘em, and little sugar cube sweetheart girls isn’t gonna change that.

_They rioted because of the girl,_ the little voice reminds them, as small and ugly as this awful form they’re trapped in. _They cared for her._

And they shake it off, because whatever, _whatever_ , that’s not human strength, that’s human idiocy.

“Hey, Envy,” May whispers, curled up on a raggedy old couch, and through the crack in the curtains on their jar they can see her eyes reflecting the embers of a tiny fire she built up earlier. How’s she doing this, how’s she making it through? She’ll die in that damn desert, and then _they’ll_ die, and everything will suck. Like hell they’ll let that happen.

“I’m trying to sleep.” Not even, but they curl their tail over their eyes to show as much. “You might wanna shut up and do the same.”

“Don’t you get lonely? You’ve barely said anything this whole trip…”

Is that pity, dripping from her voice like toxic sludge? Bite your tongue, bite your tongue. Bide your time. Lose it at her now and she’ll never listen to you.

“Didn’t think Xing royalty showed such mercy to their captives.” A pause. They curl up into a little ball, for show. Pathetic. They’re pathetic and tiny and slimy and it’s disgusting, but she’s worse, she’s worse, she’s gotta be worse, covered in glitter but spewing vomit. “Yeah? What’s it to you? The Homunculi are _family_. We call our leader ‘Father,’ remember? Don’t you miss your family, little squirt?”

Her clan. A touchy subject for her, they paid attention. They make sure to look defeated and small.

“… I’m sorry.”

_Fuck off,_ they seethe internally. _Fuck off fuck off fuck off shut your little MOUTH_ – _you don’t know ANYTHING, you stupid brat, I’m not lonely, I’m perfect, I want for_ nothing _, I’m not some goddamned avarice-ridden Greed, get it right._

“It can’t be good,” she continues, “being away from your family. No matter how terrible you guys are… do you guys still fight for each other?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Do you?”

“Yes. _Duh._ ”

“Do you love them?”

They think of Lust and her meddlesome fingers, of Gluttony and his stupid simplicity, of Greed and his rogue insults. They think of Father. They like following Father’s orders, it’s good, they can teach humans a lesson that way. But all of them – they’re all fucked up, and make something seethe and writhe in them again. Not the way humans make them seethe. Quieter, somehow.

“ _Love_ is more human nonsense. I’m a Homunculus, don’t forget it.”

“Yeah. Okay.” She shifts a little. “That’s not the question I wanted to ask, anyway.”

“The spit it out, we don’t have all night, princess.”

What a horrible, wretched title for a horrible, wretched human. It rolls off their tongue with condescension worthy of Pride, and they wince, for a moment. Rein it in, or she’ll never listen.

“You’re called ‘Envy,’ ” she says, slowly, picking out the words with dainty precision. “And others – they’re called other things too, aren’t they? Alphonse told me about the Seven Deadly Sins.”

“What are you getting at?”

“If you’re Envy, what are you envious of?”

The question grinds them to a halt.

They’ve always hated this stupid name. It sounds nice, with an uncommon letter – v, special all on its own – but it’s never fit them. They’ve always wondered why they weren’t Pride instead, why the _kid_ got to be proud (even if he’s the oldest, but hey, who’s really counting, it’s not like they’re _young_ or _inexperienced_ or anything). They’ve got plenty of arrogance. Why wouldn’t they, they’re a _Homunculus_ , the best of the best, created to be tremendous and powerful and immortal. If these damned humans kept their stubborn little noses out of the Homunculi’s _business_ , anyway.

It doesn’t fit. It doesn’t match.

They’re not jealous of anything.

Not of the way humans look at each other the way no Homunculus has ever looked at them. Not of how Scar steps in front of little miss pink whenever there’s danger. Not of how loyal Pipsqueak is to the tin can who’s bound to peel away from that armor any day now. Not of the screaming voices in their head, children crying for their mommies and daddies, mothers and brothers and daughters trying to find each other. Not of the dear Colonel Mustang’s impossible will to search every nook and cranny until he finds the murderer of his darling friend. Not of their convictions, not of their beliefs, not of their love.

Those are all horrific weaknesses. And they don’t need one _centimeter_ of _any_ of that shit.

_Stop looking at me,_ they whisper silently, wanting the curtain to close on their jar, the smallness and ugliness overwhelming them in a second. _Don’t look at me, stupid girl, don’t look, don’t look, I don’t want you to see the slime and vomit spilling out of the cracks. It’s a misnomer, you hear, a misnomer._

_I’m not jealous of **anything.**_

“What a question.” They curl up for real, a tight little ball, shrugging out of the slice of light and into the darkness of the tiny jar. “Maybe you’ll find out someday.”

Maybe she’ll figure it out. When _they_ stuff her in a tiny jar and force her to see only slits of daylight at a time, cold and too far away to touch. Just staring out of the crack with her big eyes and waiting for people to fawn over her sugar voice but they don’t, they don’t, and no one ever comes, and it’s just her in the bleeding darkness.

Maybe then she’ll feel small and ugly, too.


End file.
